


Dirt Road Blues

by mackiedockie



Category: Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bars and Pubs, Community: hlh_shortcuts, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-26
Updated: 2010-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-14 02:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackiedockie/pseuds/mackiedockie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Methos, it started out as just another night mucking out the bar for free beer and freer conversation with Joe Dawson, the one bartender who really knew his name.  Just how much trouble could he get into at Joe’s?  More than enough to start up a dead-end dirt road to help hide a body for a friend--and take the long way back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirt Road Blues

“What about the woman with the wide shoulders and the low center of gravity, Joe? She was watching you all night.” Methos inquired as Joe finished up the bar cleanup after hours.

“You mean the goalie? Yeah, I saw you and her and the rest of the women’s hockey team out there on the dance floor. They were watching me all night because I was on the stage all night. When the lights came up, they were watching you. The only time they stopped watching you was when you hid in the bathroom during last call, abandoning me to shovel them out into their taxis.”

“I was giving you room to exercise your fabled charm. Charm needs exercise, Joe. Just like other muscles we all know and love.”

“Don’t be derailing me with bogus talk about the cardio capabilites of your love muscle,” Joe scoffed. “I was watching. It’s in my contract. It was _Methos Trolls For Attention Night._ If I put up posters, I’d pack the place.”

“And there I thought I was joining the Lonelyhearts Club. You being charter member, and all.”

“Don’t be a jerk, jerk. And you’re still derailing. The fact you are no longer surgically attached to MacLeod’s hip has been duly noted. I think it was even Twittered in Kyrgystan. Hell, you’ve been radiating _Available Me_ all week.”

“Just because MacLeod decided to spend the last lunar month up at Chief Mountain Monastery rededicating himself to some warrior-priest’s obscure martial art? Am I so shallow? So undisciplined? So downright vengeful?”

“Celibacy is a bitch,” Joe sighed in agreement, taking his point as made. “Shame to waste your talents, with a whole hockey team begging for you to unleash the hounds.”

“Just what I told MacLeod. But does he listen to his elders?”

“Not when I’m around to eavesdrop,” Joe admitted. “You mean you talked to MacLeod tonight? I thought he was being held spiritually incommunicado, or whatever they do up at the Chief Mountain monastery to block cell phones.”

“We did speak, this afternoon, briefly. He’s on his way back. Tonight, in fact.”

“Then why the hockey team tango?”

“I was just warming them up for you,” Methos said virtuously. “And it would have been helpful to balance my Chi before his return.”

“I’ll balance your Chi--” Joe automatically threatened, though there was no bite to it.

“Would you?” Methos pounced.

Joe rolled his eyes. “Save the flirty brows for Mac. You know I’m immune. And enough with the team blind dates, will you? I’ve got an image to protect.”

“Yes, yes, the mysterious blues traveler who sings of the loves of others while concealing his own tragic secrets,” Methos said testily. “Spoken like a true Warrior-Priest. I love it when you emulate the Highlander’s kinks. I can tease him by proxy.”

“Not if I stop pouring beer,” Joe threw a damp towel at him. “This is a working bar. Get to work. And why are you hanging out here if Mac’s on his way back? I’d think you’d be lighting the candles in the window at the dojo.”

Methos cheerfully made his rounds with his freshly topped off beer in tow, leaving perfect condensation circles on each newly wiped table. “Candles. Good idea,” he said with an approving smile.

“Good idea for what?” Joe asked with a note of suspicion.

“If you’re lucky, I’ll take pictures,” Methos promised. “I’m here because Mac told me to meet him here, after hours. And before you ask, I don’t know why, aside from your obvious charms. Cell reception was lousy.”

“I have obvious charms? I thought you said they were puny and underexercised.”

“I lied. You have scads of beer charm. See?” Methos plunked his empty glass on the bar, and beamed as it was refilled.

“Just as long as you aren’t after me just for my looks,” Joe allowed, as he unloaded another tray of bar glasses from the washer.

“Aren’t you curious about my plans for MacLeod’s return?”

“After the gals left with the puck bag, I figured everything else would be anticlimactic.” Joe made the mistake of sounding a bit wistful about that.

Methos grinned. Joe took a wary step backward. “I believe that MacLeod owes it to us to show me what wonders of self-control he learned at the feet of his guest instructors,” Methos said, deliberately keeping his tone harmless. Mostly harmless. “How else will I be able to share those secrets for the benefit of all mankind? Starting here in the bar, of course.”

“That’s okay, I don’t need to know,” Joe quickly assured.

“I’ll just hit the high points, so you’ll be able to accurately record them.”

Unfooled, and with a slight tinge of panic, Joe cast about the bar. “Where are my earplugs?”

“Now what kind of Chronicler would allow such a unique opportunity for personal enlightenment about his Immortal slip through his fingers?” Methos protested. “The devil is in the details.”

“Detail this,” Joe flipped a quick centerfinger salute before rummaging through the back of the till.

“That’s an excellent guess! Though it’s remarkable what marvellous improvements technology has brought to the most ancient of healthy recreations. Why just last week I found this marvellous little shop that stocked the new Acme Cork-a-Cock Pretzel Cage, which when used in combination with the From Dusk Til Dawn IcyHot Prostate Massager and just a touch of extra-virgin olive oil... .”

Methos rambled happily into TooMuchInformationville, and Joe clapped his hands over his ears. “Not Professor Pierson and the Miracle Prostate Milking scheme again!”

“Prostate health is important. And olive oil has many beneficial properties, Joe.”

“Damn, I’m never eating Italian at Mac’s again.” Joe triumphantly came up with two heavy duty earplugs from under the till, guaranteed to keep him safe from karaoke, emo and disco. “Sweep while you’re talking, or the beer charm dries up,” he warned, and jammed them home.

“Variety in your diet is important!” Methos advised loudly anyway. After all, he was a Doctor. “And if you can’t sleep tonight for visions of hockey players dancing in your heads, you only have yourself to blame!”

“I can’t hear you,” Joe sang out. “And it’s head, not heads!”

“Perhaps your anatomy differs from the manly norm,” Methos sympathized.

Joe ducked under the bar and rattled the restocks, knowing when to beat a strategic retreat.

Methos waltzed around the room with the broom, putting up the chairs and sweeping up the detritus of the day, merrily sniping at Joe about tantric remedies as he returned for a refill. A vibrating hum interrupted Joe’s pour, and he closed the tap early to pull out his cell.

Methos brightened. “You bright old dog, you gave the team your iPhone number!”

“I wish,” Joe muttered, frowning at the caller ID and replacing one earplug with his iPhone. He meandered down the bar toward the till, leaving the other plug in to shut out Methos’ arcane and anatomically unlikely romantic advice.

Thwarted, Methos reached over the bar to coax the tap into topping off his glass. Methos didn’t always drink beer, but he’d never believed in stoic half measures. The prickle of an approaching Immortal presence caught him just as he raised the glass. He didn’t spill a drop as he eased instinctively into a more battle-ready position, just a few inches nearer the sword in his carefully arranged coat on the bar.

Joe noticed anyway. “I take it that’s not MacLeod on your radar,” he stated, tapping the cell phone off.

“How do you know I know it’s not MacLeod?” Methos asked, peering down the dark hallway, checking the back stage, noting the front door was still securely locked.

“You do this thing with your face,” Joe said, with just the barest smile. “That was a general automated alert from our good buddies in Watcher Security.” The sour look on Joe’s face indicated his low opinion of that particular arm of the Watchers. “There are strangers in town. Unchronicled strangers. They’re reported as running in a pack. Young. Male. Maybe four, maybe six. Or maybe it’s the Backstreet Boys going incognito.”

“I take it you’re not expecting guests?”

“I hadn’t invited any. I would have warned you.” Joe was already reaching under the bar for the house .45 Peacemaker, which filled his large hand nicely, and made Methos’ own snub nose automatic hideout droop in inadequacy.

“I was afraid of that. I would have warned me, too.” The buzz deepened, and the pitch changed. “Oh, but that’s MacLeod arriving, as well. Do you think he’s picking up strays again?”

Joe frowned. “No. He’d lead, with a friend in tow, not the other way around. You check the front lot. I’ll check the back alley.” He was already moving down the hall.

Methos donned his coat, loosened his sword, then drew his own lamentably unremarkable automatic, less impressive than Joe’s more burly piece, but much easier to hide. He cautiously unlocked the front door and stole a quick look around the parking lot. It was mostly empty, aside from a couple of cars left by drivers the worse for wear and the best for taxis. The sodium lights overhead burned away shadows. Nobody.

Then the lights flared, flickered, and glazed over into a bloody red glow. There was a snap of electricity from over Joe’s roof, from the alley behind the bar. Methos looked back inside to see an eldritch glow highlight the back door and leak into the hallway, eerily framing Joe as he reached for the emergency exit crash bar.

At first, Joe cautiously peered out through just a slit, ready to slam the door shut. Then, to Methos’ alarm, he straightened and threw the door wide open. “MacLeod!” he boomed in warning, raising his gun.

MacLeod’s signature still hummed, but the atonal secondary buzz had dropped out with the Quickening. Now, a new high-pitched whine crowded MacLeod’s melody. “Joe, there’s another Immortal out there!” Methos warned as he slammed the front door shut and sprinted across the bar toward the hallway.

“MacLeod! Duck, dammit!” Joe ordered, and stepped out of the cover of the doorway. A playful sprite of ball lightning bounced on the loading dock rail, lighting Joe in silhouette.

Methos heard gunfire snap. “Joe, wait!”

Joe, of course, didn’t wait.

****

Methos counted two shots from Joe’s cannon before pock marks started stitching down the opened emergency door and bullets began whanging all over the loading dock. Joe dropped his cane to steady his aim, loosing two more quick rounds before he twitched and thumped back against the door, sliding down. Methos slid to a stop on his belly next to him on the lintel, and grabbed his collar and arm to pull him in out of the line of fire.

“Dammit!” Joe protested, shifting his gun from his right to his left and nearly blowing a hole in his own left prosthesis. He popped off two more shots before he lost the angle. “They were cheating!”

“Who?” Methos asked economically, checking Joe for obvious holes.

“Four. Maybe more. Young. Mac beheaded one. I shot one trying to take him during the Quickening. Two more, far side of the dumpster. I can keep ‘em pinned down here while you go around and flank the twerps.”

“How many shots does a six-shooter hold?” Methos asked Joe rhetorically, as he dragged him a few extra feet down the corridor for good measure.

“Crap.” Joe dropped the empty gun. “I knew that.”

Satisfied that Joe was murderously angry, but not mortally wounded, Methos checked his own weapon and handed it to Joe. Drawing his sword, he stepped to the door and ducked for a quick look. He couldn’t see anything moving. The shots had stopped. “I think you caught a ricochet. Your common sense is certainly blown to smithereens. Keep your head down, will you?”

“Yes, mother,” Joe snarled, definitely smarting somewhere. “Mac’s still out there.”

“And you’re staying in here,” Methos insisted, sealing the deal by stepping quickly out the door, closing it with a slam behind him before leaping off the loading dock. The sound of Joe’s .45 whacking the door behind him made him wince nearly as much as the expectation of a hail of bullets.

But there were no more shots. Methos felt a bone-deep buzz as familiar as his own pulse flare, and he watched patiently as MacLeod pulled himself erect and stared down at a headless body. “You never call. You never write.”

“Miss me?” MacLeod asked shakily, clearly still processing the aftermath of an unexpected challenge.

“We should hold an election for Village Fool,” Methos said, lowering his sword. “As the two main candidates, you and Joe are disqualified from voting. Idiot nearly got himself another Mauve Spleen.”

“Don’t you mean Purple Heart?,” MacLeod questioned, as he surveyed the bullet spalls in the concrete wall around the door.

“The Watcher version isn’t so flashy. And it’s more of a dusty fuchsia, now that I think about it. They don’t like to encourage showboating. Just like there’s one other thing they don’t encourage,” Methos added, keeping his voice low.

“Interference,” MacLeod supplied bleakly. “Do you think they saw?”

“Joe likes to keep the surveillance lean, but he gets nervous when you go Walkabout.” Methos tasted the air, feeling no more strange Immortals, and sighting no Watchers in the shadows. Frowning, he studied a blood trail that dragged away down the alley. “Too much blood. No healing.”

“Joe saved my life.” MacLeod sounded a bit peeved at the thought. “The one I beheaded was very young. Confused. Surprised. So was I,” he confessed with a hint of shame. “I wasn’t ready to meet the second threat.” Pointing at the trail, MacLeod added, “This one was mortal. Popped out from behind the dumpster when the Quickening hit, and came after me. Just one more second, and you would have had my Quickening in turn.”

Methos froze at the offhanded revelation. “There was at least one more Immortal, but the signal was very weak, farther away. He must have dragged the mortal away. Probably hoping to kill two birds with one stone.”

“Or was it a pre-Immortal?” MacLeod speculated, clearly still upset.

“What would be the point? A pre-Immortal couldn’t gather the Quickenings. I get the bad feeling Joe saved both of us from two really embarrassing closing Chronicles.” If Joe hadn’t been so quick on the draw, Methos would have been paralyzed with MacLeod’s Quickening, and pathetically easy prey as well. Methos dug an unsympathetic elbow into MacLeod. “We need to get out of the open.”

At Methos’ reminder, MacLeod shook off the remnants of his daze. “Is Joe all right?”

“Mildly punctured, and mad as hell. I’d open the back door with a truce flag in your hand,” Methos recommended as they backed toward the loading dock, each watching the other’s back.

“Me? I’m not the one that ticked him off,” MacLeod protested.

“Don’t be too sure,” Methos observed. “He hates it when you’re careless. Drives him to drink.”

“And there I thought you were his favorite chauffeur.”

Methos paused to quickly search the headless body left behind, pocketing a wallet, passport, and two cell phones. “The Watchers called Joe. They’re here. They saw. Maybe they even invited him to join the party.”

“A setup?” MacLeod’s antipathies toward the Watchers were getting a good workout. “Another Tribunal?”

“I don’t think they’d waste the airfare to bring the Tribunal here,” Methos said with dark conviction. “They’d just videoconference the verdict. But after the last cockup, I don’t think they’d kill him outright. They know you’d be miffed.”

“They could take him so far underground in the organization, he might never find his way back,” MacLeod said uneasily. “Isn’t that what they did with Shapiro? How else do they keep their malcontents under control?”

“Ah, the fine art of hostage-taking. The Watchers are unappreciated masters.”

“Then you think they might kidnap him?” MacLeod pressed.

“Not if we kidnap him first.”

“Joe won’t like that.”

“I won’t tell him, if you don’t.”

“That should go well,” MacLeod sighed.

Methos slipped out his copy of Joe’s backdoor key, and gave MacLeod a worried glance. “I’m a little surprised Joe hasn’t barrelled out here again.” Using MacLeod as a shield, Methos unlocked the door and slid inside behind him, sword at ready. His precautions were mostly unnecessary. Joe was exactly where he had left him, leaning against the wall in the hallway, cradling a cell phone to one ear while pointing the automatic at the door with the other.

“Tell it to the Marines, bozo,” Joe clicked the phone shut with finality and flipped the safety on the automatic. He stared off into the middle distance.

“Who was that, Joe?” Methos asked quietly.

“Colleague,” Joe said vaguely. “Former colleague. I don’t know. No one.”

“Who, Joe?” MacLeod asked, quite politely, considering his history with many of Joe’s former colleagues.

Joe started to screw up the side of his face, until he caught sight of Methos laughing at him silently. “Fine. Just fine. But it’s a what, not a who.”

MacLeod and Methos loomed over Joe, who glared up at them from the floor. Reopening his phone, he handed the glowing screen over. A short video looped over and over, taken from the vantage point of the dumpster. They saw the sword raised, gun raised, gun firing, swordsman falling. “Smile, MacLeod, we’re on candid camera,” he said in disgust.

“Blackmail?” Methos asked, peering at the two phones he’d picked up from the body, opening each, comparing stored numbers. “Or an ardent fan?”

“Either way, it’ll end up with the Tribunal,” Joe said with a wince. “Or worse, on Facebook. Listen. You two need to get out of here, plan an exit strategy. And I need to take care of the body. Now give me a hand up, willya?”

Methos ignored him, and caught MacLeod’s hand when he held it out to Joe. “First things first. Mac, do you know your phone’s been hacked? That’s how they got Joe’s number.” He handed over one of the phones he’d recovered, and showed them a GPS tracking screen. “Your location, too. These youngsters are good. Worse. These youngsters are our first encounter with Immortal digital natives. A whole gang of them. Now how the hell did so many shiny new criminal yearlings bond so quickly?”

“Facecrook?” Joe suggested.

MacLeod glowered a great glower. “I think I know part of the answer to that. The monastery up near Chief Mountain supports an orphanage in the next valley. I’ve contributed to it in the past, and helped some _special_ candidates get in. They’ve lost some students, over the years. Runaways, they thought, dissatisfied with the isolation. But what if they were lured?”

“Recruits,” Methos speculated. “Footsoldiers.”

“It may go farther than just one orphanage. I’ve heard some disturbing stories from Grace,” MacLeod admitted. “And Amanda mentioned an incident in the Loire refuge that Rebecca founded. That’s the reason I returned, to try to get more information,” MacLeod automatically and unapologetically looked to Joe.

Joe made another move to use a carton of empties to lever himself into vertical, again thwarted by Methos. He sighed, closed his eyes, and thought for a moment. “Hackers, not just recruiters, if they got into the orphanage networks. Maybe through donor websites. And what you’re saying fits something I heard a while back about lost foster kids,” Joe mused, looking a touch green at the thought. “By the way, are those phones safe?”

“No. But I’m not safe, either.” Methos dropped them into his pocket and now finally held his hand out to Joe. “Come on, no more lollygagging.”

“Probably not the best choice of phrase,” MacLeod murmured.

Joe looked like he he was saving up to clout Methos once he found his balance, but the slight squelching sound as he pulled away from the wall sapped his ferocity. “Gotta bandaid?”

*****

“Relax, Joe. The body is safely wrapped up in a tarp in the back of your jeep. And the chainsaw you asked for. MacLeod even hosed down the alley. Just the way you like it.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Joe insisted as he leaned over the bar. MacLeod was plying him with the good whisky while Methos cut away his ruined shirt to reveal some shrapnel cuts left by a shattered ricochet. Joe’s left shoulderblade resembled a scatter of paper cuts, but there was no deep damage.

“Just one bad feeling? I’ve got dozens,” Methos complained. “You can’t call up the Watchers for the body cleanup. And we can’t leave you to take care of it yourself. For one thing, you can’t run a chainsaw, as manly we all know you are.”

“Sez you,” Joe’s shoulders knotted beneath his hands. “You can’t stay here running my errands if more of those kids might be in danger at the orphanage,” Joe pointed out. “Their ambush failed, they might want to make one last raid, cover their tracks. Ow. Dammit.”

“Hold still and keep talking,” Methos ordered. “It’s just a little sliver.” Methos held up the ‘little’ sliver to MacLeod as he returned to the room with a new shirt for Joe from the office stash. He was wearing another.

MacLeod winced when he saw the jagged shard, but didn’t let Joe see. “You’re running low on clean shirts,” he said briskly.

“I need to start claiming them as a business expense,” Joe groused, before he continued. “I’ve heard of the sickos that hunt pre-Immortals-this gang is operating only one step away. That kid in the alley was just cannon fodder. Someone is using these kids as pawns.”

“Like Kenny, if he ran a punk street gang? Armed with iPhones and mail order swords?,” MacLeod mused.

“Kenny was old school, he could barely read Latin, much less HTML, and there was only one tactic in his playbook,” Methos disparaged. “We’re up against a strategic planner. An Odysseus of the digital era.”

“More like a mini-Methos,” Joe lobbed back. “With a devoted following of close associates.”

MacLeod coughed up some of his whisky. “The Four Fanboys of the Apocalypse?”

“What I could have done with Google in Alexandria,” Methos speculated. “Or with you as a green Immortal, MacLeod.”

Joe moved uneasily under his hands. “Aren’t you done yet?” he cut in.

Methos tied off the last stitch. “There. See how handsome, MacLeod? All the women will remark on these virile new scars.”

“Quite fetching, especially when framed by the old bullet holes,” MacLeod agreed, though his lingering gloom over the unnecessary Quickening dampened the effectiveness of the compliment.

“You two lived in some kind of fun centuries,” Joe observed, knocking back the rest of his glass. “Here’s to medicinal purposes,” he added, pouring them all another round, immediately and ritually dispatched. “Moonlight’s burning, boys. You need to get going.”

“MacLeod needs to get going,” Methos agreed.

MacLeod slowly nodded in agreement, though he didn’t look happy about it. “I’ll alert the monastery to the danger to the orphanage. They don’t even have land lines or electricity.”

“Why not just warn the orphanage directly?” Joe asked. “It’s a school, they have to be wired.”

“Wired, and tapped. It would tip them off that we have a line on their strategy, if not their names.”

“The monastery’s isolation is also its advantage. It means they aren’t vulnerable to virtual stalking. They aren’t on the gang’s radar, except as guest teachers. Not guest warriors. With this,” MacLeod tossed his cell phone in the air before returning it to his pocket, “I can lead them into a trap.”

Methos nodded, approving of the wolfish warrior’s gleam that chased away the darkness in the Highlander’s gaze. “When we finish hiding the corpus, we’ll meet you to close the trap. And MacLeod,” Methos warned fairly, “Save a monk’s cell for us. I’ve got unfinished business with you.”

Deliberately avoiding Methos’ gaze, Joe added innocently, “Better light a candle.”

****

“House cleaning, huh?” Joe muttered, handling the throttle with a little too much ginger.

“Still smarting?” Methos asked solicitously, knowing neither one of them were talking about physical injuries. Joe’s pride had taken a bigger beating than his body.

“I don’t like being babysat,” Joe snapped. Finally.

“Amazingly, we’ve noticed,” Methos said agreeably. “If you turn up here, we’ll get the house cleaning part over with. Locker cleaning, really. We need more firepower. I have a gun vault at the storage facility on Denny Way. There’s a mint condition ‘64 Dragunov rifle with your name on it.”

Methos saw Joe’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Adrenaline was good for war footing. “A Dragunov? How did you know I was rated on a sniper rifle? You never set foot on the Watcher gun ranges.”

“Your personnel jacket is my personnel jacket,” Methos grinned, huffing on his fingernails and shining them on his jacket. “I’ve got some other toys you might like,” he added, dangling the bait. “Including a nice bandolier of ammunition for that .45 of yours.”

“Okay, running out of ammo was embarrassing,” Joe admitted. “I wasn’t expecting the shootout at the OK Corral in my own back yard. News at eleven.”

“The Spanish Inquisition caught me by surprise, too. It happens.”

“It didn’t happen to you on YouTube,” Joe countered.

“No, it didn’t,” Methos reflected. “It might have lost it’s popularity more quickly if it had. Who would have friended Torquemada?"

“We could count the Fox News fans and project from there,” Joe offered, only half joking. A quarter. An eighth. Methos read his face again. Not joking at all.

Joe flipped on his turn signal, and paid strict attention to the speed limit as Methos directed him to the self-service storage lockers. Methos ran the security strip through, and pulled down the rolling door behind them before opening the gun safe.

“Mi pistola es su pistola,” Methos gestured grandly.

Joe’s nose wrinkled as the smell of gun grease wafted out of the case. He ran the back of his knuckles over the barrel of the Dragunov, in a way that was utterly unlike the caress he gave his guitars. “Maybe we should just take them all, sort them out later,” he recommended softly. “We don’t know how many we’re up against.”

“Smart boy,” Methos agreed, already moving the ammunition next to the door so they could load and leave quickly. “Better turn the car around, it will shield the body in the back from the security camera. You’ve had your fifteen minutes of fame for the night,” he recommended.

“Smart ass,” Joe returned with a rueful grin. He turned for the car, stopped, then reached into the case to liberate a beat up sheath carrying an old Marine Ka-Bar field knife. “Would it make you nervous if I carried this?” he asked solicitously.

“You bet it would,” Methos admitted.

“Good.”

****

Methos played with Joe’s smartphone while they travelled, trusting Joe’s long career experience in body-snatching to get them safely out of town. Joe drove his Jeep smoothly through the sleeping city, working his way east into the Cascade mountains just off Interstate 5. “I thought the Ka-Bar wasn’t standard issue in Vietnam,” Methos eventually ventured as they turned up a dark and twisty logging road.

“It wasn’t,” Joe answered shortly. “My Dad carried one in the Pacific. Mom gave it to me when I was shipped overseas.”

Methos grinned in the moonlight. “A family tradition. Are you going to will it to Amy?”

“I’ll will it where the sun doesn’t shine, if you start teasing me about Amy,” Joe stated calmly.

“Forewarned is forearmed,” Methos nodded.

“What are you doing with my cell phone?” Joe asked, slowing to look over at the glowing screen. “If you install that FarmVille app again, I’m throwing it off the next bridge.”

“I learned my lesson the last time. No more cows. But speaking of bridges, why not just roll the body off the last bridge into the Sound? Nice and deep, lots of crabs, no muss, no fuss.”

“Still too many security cameras. No cams on the spruce forests, though. Not on this stretch of land, anyway. I checked.”

“And you picked this stretch of land, because... ?”

“Blowdowns,” Joe said without elaboration. “You made sure Mac packed the chainsaw?”

“Honestly, I’m just relieved you’re focused on trees, not Saw IV.” Methos made a very realistic sound effect of a high-powered blade catching on unknown matter.

“Ick. That’s disgusting.”

“I try. It’s amazing how thinking like a fourteen-year-old can sharpen your survival skills from generation to generation.”

“I’d better explain _that_ to MacLeod,” Joe reflected. “My reputation is shot to hell as it is.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” Methos agreed amiably.

“Playing with your X-Box constitutes a survival strategy?”

“Beats playing with Torquemada in the Spanish Inquisition. Why, I remember the time that... ,”

“Speaking of ‘ick’, hold that thought,” Joe cut in, braking next to a blown down tree that almost blocked the road. There was a crater right next to the track where the root ball had been torn from the ground, leaving a deep hole. “That last storm did some damage up here. Some good Samaritan should clear this hazard away.” he suggested, staring at his passenger.

“Hey. What. Me? I was never a Samaritan. Or if I was, I was bad. Very bad. And I don’t hold with power tools. Very dangerous. I forgot my steel-toed boots. Where are the safety goggles!”

“You’re the one who dissed my chainsaw skills, buddy. Now sharpen it up, or shut up.”

Joe backed up the Jeep so the crater was next to the rear of the Jeep, and the headlights lit up the trunk of the tree. Despite his words, he was the first to open up the chainsaw case, exposing a well cared for orange and white Stihl 032 AV. Checking the gas and oil and tightening the chain, Joe finished by touching up a couple of burred teeth with a round file. Finally satisfied, he glanced sideways at Methos, then toward the crater. “Body goes there,” he said quietly.

“Then we bury him?”

“Then we say a few words. Then we bury him deep.”

Catching Joe’s mood, Methos moved the body to the lip of the crater with respect and care, and then climbed down into the hole, using the broken roots for purchase. The tree was well over a hundred feet tall, and the root ball had unearthed a fine eight foot deep cavity. Methos laid out the body with more ceremony than he’d summoned in centuries, making sure the head was properly tucked in with the body, where the spirit might find it in any third afterlife, if necessary. He had enough headless ghosts in his past.

Joe’s words weren’t sentimental, but they were tinged with a sad regret for the nameless youth’s inexperience and lost potential, and just a touch of hope for light on paths unknown. Finally, he dropped in a handful of dirt, and backed away, his face expressionless.

“Do you always say the words?” Methos asked carefully.

“The words change. But you gotta say something,” Joe said, moving on. “Grab the chainsaw, lets finish this.”

Methos carried the saw forward into the wash of the headlights, and surveyed the tree dubiously. “You want me to cut that up, and fill in the hole?”

“No, of course not. Some unlucky woodcutter might harvest the wood for his stove, and find a nasty surprise at the bottom. Cut here.” Joe indicated a spot around 12 feet up the trunk. “Make sure you cut away the limbs from the trunk for three feet on either side. You don’t want to get tangled up with the branches.”

“You sound like you’ve done this a few times.”

“Every Watcher evolves their own system. It keeps us from developing too many detectable habits. Crime fighters see serial killers behind every bush these days.”

“I wonder why.” Methos pulled the drawcord and a throaty roar shattered the peace of the silent woods. “Not exactly stealthy!” he yelled.

“Cut,” Joe admonished. “You’re on the clock, now.”

Methos cut. He limbed the branches he could reach, and undercut a notch in the main trunk before starting a cut from the top down. The trunk was nearly as wide as the twenty-four inch bar, and the air filled with the smell of warm pitch and sawdust. Methos heard wood snapping, and the trunk shifted, a subtle movement of many tons. He backed out the saw and gave the tree room, but nothing happened.

“This is the fun part,” Joe said, his eyes catching a gleam of lunar light. “This is the part I miss. One more inch. Go on,” he urged.

Dubious, Methos revved the saw and re-entered the cut. The fact that Joe had stepped well back behind the Jeep was not lost on him. “If this thing rolls on me, I’m putting it in your Chronicle!” Methos yelled. Then, the last of the trunk parted with a sharp snap, and the upper part of the tree settled gently on the support of it’s upper limbs, rocking as if on rusty springs. The lower part of the tree trunk didn’t move an inch. The new saw cut gleamed whitely in the moonlight.

“Hmm. Looks like it needs the magic touch. Gimme...” Joe moved forward, motioning for the saw, craning his head to look into the shadows under the main trunk.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Methos blocked him with a solid elbow. “MacLeod would kill me if I allowed you to be murdered by a conniving conifer.”

“Killjoy,” Joe sulked. He pointed down into the shadows. “Cut that last branch holding it down, and let’s get out of here.”

“Who in their right mind taught you how to run a chainsaw, Joe?”

“They come with a perfectly good manual.”

“I had to ask.”

Methos poked his head very carefully under the trunk and trimmed away a few more branches. His surgery revealed a long, thick limb deeply skewered into the earth by the weight of the falling tree.

“That one?”

“That one,” Joe confirmed, still a little grumpy. “Cut it close to the trunk. And be ready to jump away if the saw vibration shatters the branch. It’s under a lot of pressure. I don’t want to explain to MacLeod how you were beheaded by a murderous conifer meant for me.”

“Don’t even joke about that, Joe.”

“Who’s joking?”

Methos crept up on the anchoring limb like an enemy sentry on a castle battlement, and ripped the saw through the base of the branch, the chain screaming. The limb did shatter, and Methos jumped back as if dodging a cobra, tossing the saw. The anchor released, the tree trunk swept upward, it’s flexible branches gathering in the saw and launching it fifty feet down the road, where it bounced from housing to saw tip to roll to a rest with only a couple of scratches to mark it’s flight.

“Gotta admire good German engineering.” Joe was grinning like a thief.

“You didn’t tell me you were re-inventing the catapult!” Methos accused.

“I thought you’d recognize the design,” Joe managed to answer, after he stopped laughing. The trunk was now standing perfectly vertical, the root ball returned to the earth, covering the body with a ton of tree and dirt. “Besides, it’s a counterweight problem. A trebuchet. Are you sure you lived through the middle ages?”

“Don’t be starting on me, Joe. I was a scribe, not a siege-leader. Fiery arrows and hot lead suck.”

“Can’t argue with you there. Come on, Paul Bunyan, grab the saw and let’s get out of here. I’ll buy you a beer for beheading your first spruce.”

While Methos packed up the SUV, Joe wandered over to the upright trunk, mindful of his footing on the uneven soil. Drawing the Marine knife from inside his coat, he carefully carved a small ankh on the eastern exposure of the tree bole.

“Done?” Methos asked, looking over Joe’s shoulder.

“Done.”

*****

Joe eased stiffly into the driver’s seat and disengaged the handbrake. “If you’re going to be messing with those phones again, see if you can hook up my music to the speakers. I can’t get my radio station way up here.”

“Do you want me to drive for a while?”

“Not on your life. You drive like an old lady.”

“Horses are safer.”

“But not as sanitary.” Joe adjusted the wheel after looking over Methos’ shoulder one too many times.

“See? Keep your eyes on the cobblestones, driver.”

“Then tell me what you’re up to over there.”

“I’m playing with the video. If we can make it look like it’s been photoshopped, maybe we can avoid getting arrested, at least.”

“Great, I get to end up on JibJab, too. ‘Blues Barkeep Blasts Teen.’ ”

Methos froze in mid-text, and stared at Joe. “You’re a genius.”

“I knew that. Where’s the proof, so I can post that, too, wise guy?”

“Well, your new marketing director and agent is a genius, anyway. Why, he’s planning on tying your unique gritty urban blues image into the next hot cultural craze. The Green Hornet!”

“There’s a Green Hornet craze?” Joe asked, mystified. “Not since I was in high school, man. Bruce Lee was cool, though.”

“You wouldn’t still have the lunch bucket, would you?” Methos asked.

“I ain’t telling. Now how does my being a genius tie into the Green Hornet?”

“We’ll photoshop you and Mac into a half a dozen little vids and release them to the wild. Joe Dawson, Blues Man by night, and Crime Fighter by-,” Methos hesitated, “-night. We’ll have to work on that part. Instead of the Green Hornet, you’ll be the Blue Bee. Mac can play your faithful sidekick, Buzz.”

The mental image almost forced Joe off the road. “The Blue Bee? I’m not going to be the Blue Bee. That’s stupid. Besides, doesn’t the Blue Beetle have a copyright on insects in indigo tights, or something?”

“You’ve clearly never watched the Tick,” Methos accused. “Okay, then what should we call you? The Azul Ant? The Woad Wasp? I kind of like that one,” Methos paused to scribble it down in his notebook.

“Why an insect? Why not the Turquoise Tanager?” Joe asked a little desperately.

“Too many syllables, and too hard to fit into a word balloon. Besides, not enough chitinous imagery to cover your deep inner angst in the storyline. After all, the theme for all superheroes is metamorphosis in the wake of disaster.”

“Great. Next you’ll be calling me the Cerulean Cockroach.”

“The Kafka fans would squee,” Methos considered.

“Yeah, you and that one guy in the basement in Cleveland,” Joe said. “What’s his name, Gregor?”

Methos adopted an expression of pained martyrdom. “You just watch. Our fan base is small, but mighty in thematic content. We’ll get our reboot filmed yet.”

“Hey, focus, here. You can’t start a viral craze from my telephone.”

“Smart phone. Keep up, Luddite.”

“Look who’s talking. And that’s my top of the line iPhone you’re borrowing. You’d think it was a beer or something, cadging it like that. Why don’t you use yours?”

“Because you get better coverage. It’s a Watcher perk. And because I’m using my phone to shield yours from traces.”

“What, you have an app for that?”

“Not quite. I have a company that invented an app for that. Don’t tell Mac, he’ll want to make me buy my own beer.”

“Horrors.”

“I’d have to spend all my time at the bar.”

“I’m absolutely, positively, never ever telling Mac,” Joe fervently promised. “But there’s one thing I don’t get.”

“Yes? How may I clarify?” Methos was willing to be generous in doling out his secrets, if he could twist more concessions out of Joe. He had lots of secrets.

“Why don’t you get your pet hackers at your company to Jibjab the video?” Joe asked blandly.

Methos stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Because...that would be too easy?”

“Bright boy,” Joe grinned.

Even as Methos finished his email instructions and jabbed the send on the touchscreen, the iPhone bleeped, and the display flipped and blacked out. “Oh, that can’t be good,” Methos shook it. “Not now! I need access. The vid hasn’t finished uploading.”

“Give it to me,” Joe demanded.

Methos held it out of reach, while squinting to read a scroll of text that started crawling across the screen. “It’s in a new code. You know I hate it when you keep things from me.”

“Don’t make me stop the car.”

Sullenly, Methos handed over the phone.

Joe read it, and squared his shoulders. “That was fast. For Watchers.”

“What?”

“I’ve been blacklisted. They’ve pulled the plug on my access code on the network. Keep up, Sidekick.”

“No, no, no, Mac’s the sidekick, I’m the sage and magical advisor.”

“Do I dub thee Yoda the Yogi? I’ll just shorten it to Yoga.” Joe glanced down as the scrolling continued, then tossed the useless phone back to Methos. “A general recall.”

“A line in the sand? You go back to headquarters like all the rest of the good little field agents, or else?”

“That’s about right,” Joe shrugged. “We’ve been there, done that.”

“Got the bullet holes.”

“We need to catch up to Mac and warn him.”

“We need a real computer to tease out the vid and finish the upload.”

“Mine is locked up in the vault back at the bar. It might as well be on Mars. How about yours?”

Methos shook his head. “I use the University Free Library when I want to stay off the grid. The one at home is an innocent shill. But we can’t backtrack to any of them in the middle of the night.”

“If we’re lucky, the Watchers and the Terrible Tweens Gang will crash into each other looking for us,” Joe said, rubbing his beard restlessly.

“Invoking the goddess of fortune is perilous work,” Methos observed.

“It’s a job?”

“In every culture I ever died in, it was.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It should.”

“Then we’re back at square one, meeting Mac at the monastery, drawing in the gang, and fighting our way out from there. We’ll deal with the Watchers and the rest of the flak later.”

“No. Not quite. The orphanage will have computers. Good ones, if Mac’s a donor. We’ll co-opt the gang’s own network and use it to bring them down.”

“That’s evil. I like it.”

“It’s nice to exercise hidden talents once and a while.”

“You’re too modest. Really.” Joe glanced sideways. “And if you call me the ‘Blue Bee’ on Facebook, I’m warning the monastery abbot about the Icyhot Pronghammer and Prostate Screamer, and your blues fixation will be concentrated in other anatomical quarters entirely.”

“Evil is as evil does, Joe.”

“How far to Chief Mountain?”

“Maybe ten hours from here? MacLeod will be a couple of hours ahead of us.”

“Then they should have the orphanage secured by the time we get there. Piece of cake.”

“We’ll see, Woad Warrior.”

*****

They turned east and north. Methos took over driving in the dead of night, when Joe began to blink heavily against the oncoming truck lights. Methos kept an eye on him as he drove‒Joe was still favoring his shoulder as he dozed, and tended to jerk awake at twenty minute intervals. After the third rousing, Methos asked quietly, “Why don’t you kick your legs off and stretch out in the back?”

“Nah. Too many ghosts,” Joe answered, too tired to lie.

“Like MacLeod’s challenger? He has a resting place, Joe. You made sure of that. You said the words.”

“No. Like the kid I shot and didn’t bury. There’s no words for that.”

Methos couldn’t think of any words, either.

Joe turned his head toward the window, and pretended to sleep again. Still, the steady beat of the tread on the road and the hum of the engine wore down even the most persistent haunts. Methos made sure, after that, that a thread of music kept tumbling from the tinny country stations that dotted Highway 3 as it twisted between the Cascades and the main spine of the Rockies.

“Where are we?” Joe demanded hoarsely as Methos started their ascent into the Rockies.

“The wicked, twisted road,” Methos said randomly. It was the name of the song on the radio.

“Oh. Wake me when it straightens out, will you?” Joe asked politely, then didn’t rouse again til dawn.

*****

Methos crested the Crowsnest Summit as the sun rose over the plains of Alberta. The quaking aspens that filled the southern ravines were just unfolding their autumn colors, but the trees below gleamed green in the early light. Methos yawned, and checked the fuel gauge.

“How did you get over the border with the equivalent of a National Guard arsenal in the back of the Jeep?” Joe murmured, no sign of sleep clouding his eyes as he straightened up.

Methos blinked innocently. “Do I look like a gunrunner? Besides, it’s your plates they ran at the checkpoint, not mine. And the Watchers have mysterious ways of making border guards look the other way.”

“There’s a gas station with a decent diner just this side of Burmis,” Joe offered, not bothering to comment on Methos’ looks. “They have biscuits and gravy.”

“You’ve been following Mac over here on his pilgrimages,” Methos accused.

Joe shrugged with one shoulder. “It’s what I do. It’s not like I’m cheating on you,” he added with a fleeting smile. “If it makes you feel any better, the first time was when Mac was dating Tessa. She donated one of her marble statues to the kids. I watched them install it from an old mine entrance up in the hills.”

“Mac know?”

“Hell, no. Mac knows I’ve Watched him for over twenty years. But he doesn’t really get at a gut level that I _watched_ him most of that time, you know? Do me a favor, and don’t clue him in.”

“He should be honored.”

“Look who’s angling for beer for breakfast,” Joe laughed, stretching carefully. “Let’s see if the Watcher credit card still works. I think they owe us per diem.”

“About four thousand years worth,” Methos griped.

Joe checked his watch, and frowned. “We’d better phone it in and get it to go. And about a gallon of coffee. Mac’s probably close to pulling in to Chief Mountain right now. We’re about 2 hours out. The iPhone Mafia must have figured we’ve blown town by now.”

“I texted them as of 3:45 am last night, to be precise.”

“I need that coffee,” Joe declared. “Because it sounds to me like you told them where we’re going.”

“Why should they get a good night’s sleep? We want them tired, rushed and unable to call in reinforcements.”

“Oh, I get it. Unlike us, right? Not to put a fine point on it, or anything.”

“They should be about three hours behind us. I’ll catch a nap after breakfast, you can cop a siesta at the school while I spike their video. We’ll be fresh as daisies.”

“Maybe I should call up headquarters and invite a few security teams, too.”

“If we do this right, they’ll call you, announce all is forgiven, and roll out the red carpet.”

“Have you been eating those Liberty Caps again?” Joe squinted suspiciously.

“It’s a native herbal medicine. And I only indulge during the full moon. I’m considering reliving my shamanic years in my next life.”

“Give me fair warning if you decide to eat the brown acid. I’ll move to Australia.”

“Not far enough, Joe. Not far enough.”

*****

Joe drove the car east out of the Rockies into the vast expanse of the Alberta plains, and veered south, keeping the peaks on his right. Skipping the Waterton turnoff, he found a dirt road that curled into the woods and up onto a small plateau backed by a high ridge. Looming behind the ridge, a prominent flat-topped peak with forbidding vertical approaches marched out into the empty plain, leading a band of tall mountain spires.

“Okay, Joe, you’ve already scouted the area over the years. What’s your tactical recommendation?”

“As if you and Mac haven’t already laid your plans?” Joe carefully rotated his bad shoulder. “First, Mac got here and got the kids out, I hope. To Calgary?”

Methos shook his head minutely. “We don’t know if there are agents salted into the school.”

Joe sighed. “Then Mac squirreled them away at the monastery, no outside contact. The whole area is an inholding, a private no man’s land between Waterton and the Blackfoot lands,” Joe said, halting the car where the road forked. “That high rocky ridge runs back into the Waterton Park. There are trails back there, and some old mining tracks, but no real roads. This is the only vehicle approach.”

Methos scanned the terrain, eyeing bottlenecks and overlooks. “Xenophon would have liked this territory.”

“Well, let us rejoice we’re not up against the Persians.” Joe pointed at a lesser used dirt road that forked north and west. “The monastery is defensible, up a box canyon on the right. That tall ridge separates the monastery and the school. The kids’ ranch house and outbuildings are scattered all over that open plateau at the mouth of that canyon. They built around an old ghost town that folded when the silver mines played out. There’s some nice old Victorian brick buildings left, including the schoolhouse. You’d need a howitzer to knock it down.”

“The Watchers’ gain is the Pentagon’s loss. You’re a natural field commander, Joe.”

“I'm a natural bartender. Save the flattery, leave a tip.”

Methos shrugged. “Delivering an attack, delivering beer, both require strategic decisions. What’s the best place to ambush the beer truck?”

Joe searched the terrain, and pointed. “I’ve been thinking about that. Up there, on the narrow turn in the road before it hits the flats at the top. Attack from above and ahead, with that aspen grove as cover, and a rear guard swinging the door shut behind them. They can’t back up easily. Blow a tire, and they’re stuck. Even if they break through to the plateau, there’s no cover for a couple hundred feet. They're trapped in the dead end on the plateau when you close the bottleneck.”

“Couldn’t have planned it better myself. In fact, that’s exactly how I planned it myself. Except for the ninja.”

“You have a ninja?”

“Don’t leave home without one,” Methos preened.

“A MacLeod-shaped ninja?”

“That would be telling.”

“So. Where is the ninja?”

"That would be..."

“...telling. Yes. Well. Before you invent an elven army, why don’t we get up the hill and take care of business?”

“The Woad Warrior Rides again! Say that three times fast.”

“I should have turned myself in. I’d be safe behind bars. With my self respect.” Joe threw the Jeep into gear, and hit the throttle. He only moderated his speed when the road narrowed and climbed. Joe slowed to negotiate the narrow turn when the windshield starred and a bullet thumped into the center console. “Damn!” Joe automatically looked behind him, and nearly reached for reverse. “Oh, no. We aren’t.”

Methos ripped off the seatbelt and dove into the back seat to tear open an ammunition box. “Joe, I’m afraid we are, indeed, the beer truck.”

Changing his mind, Joe gunned it, ducking as the passenger window blew out into very tiny pieces. “Where the hell is your ninja?”

“Forgot to set his watch ahead? Drive now, deconstruct later.”

“That’s it, blame Mountain Standard time,” Joe threw gravel over the side of the road, barely keeping the tire on the dirt road, and crested the plateau like a sounding submarine. “Hold on!”

Methos crashed into the top of the Jeep and bounced back down onto the pile of armament, managing not to detonate anything. “Head for the back of the school! We need cover!”

“Ya think?” Joe ducked again as a round crashed through the rear window and took out the rearview mirror. “Then what?”

“You’ll think of something.” Methos loaded guns as he spoke, dropping the handguns over the back of the seat into the console where Joe could reach them quickly.

“Hey, I’m not the one with ninjas in my pocket, bud.”

“The world is unfair, Joe.”

“Why don’t you give Mac a jingle?”

“I’ve been speed dialing him so hard his antenna should have fallen off.”

Joe winced, his imagination getting the better of him. “No cell coverage in the back canyons. We knew that was going to be a problem at the monastery. At least we hope that’s all it is. We haven’t seen any kids,” he added hopefully. “Maybe it took longer than Mac figured to evacuate everyone. The gunfire will draw the good guys. The cavalry comes over the hill, right?”

“We hope. I’ve been chased by a lot of cavalry. Saved, not so much.”

Joe slewed the jeep sideways to avoid a fencepost and any more fusillades, but the rate of fire tapered as they approached the outbuildings. “How about we hole up in the school bell tower and hold them off till the ninja cavalry arrives? It makes a nice red brick bunker.”

“Your plan is my plan, General Dawson. At your command.”

“Me? You’re the one who lead both sides of the Punic Wars.”

“One side had food, the other side had beer. How to choose? Indecisiveness is a command flaw, Joe. Don’t forget that, the next time the hockey team comes to town.”

“Lance Corporals don’t get to be Generals.”

“Not if they’re smart,” Methos agreed.

“Hence my promotion,” Joe put the first of the outbuildings between themselves and the dirt road just as two oversized SUV’s crested the hill, bouncing on overamped shocks. “Hummers? Who are these guys?”

“Guys smart enough to charter a flight and get ahead of us, apparently. And with enough money to upgrade to Humvee limos. Our worst nightmare. Hormonal Immortal teenagers with shiny black toys,” Methos carped. Another round splintered Joe’s brakelight. “And attitude. Lots of attitude,” Methos amended.

“Could be worse. Could be trustfunders.” Joe risked a look behind him into the back cargo area, where the rough ride had unglued most of Methos’ gear. He rattled with escaping cell phones, knives, guns, bullets and one sharp sword. Even his wallet had flown loose, scattering a remarkable amount of cash from three different countries. “And we don’t know anyone who resembles those remarks,” he laughed.

Methos paused in his repacking long enough to glare. “Me? Attitude?”

“What was I thinking?” Joe veered around another outbuilding, and headed toward the vintage schoolhouse, getting his game face on. “I’ll hold the corner while you get the ordnance inside.”

“I’ll hand you the Dragunov after you get out. Loaded, safety on.” Methos reached over the seat and stuffed the Colt into Joe’s side pocket. “Loaded, safety on,” he repeated. “Just like you on a Saturday night.”

“Okay, okay, if we get through this, the next time a hockey team comes into the bar, the safety comes off.”

“I’ll call the Canucks personally.”

“You would, too, jerk.” Cutting the corner too closely and leaving tire tracks on the lawn, Joe screeched to a halt just at the back entrance to the main brick building. He was forced to stop well short of the door. Taking cover behind the schoolhouse were half a dozen boys, ranging in age from pre-gangly to post-gawky.

Joe looked over at Methos, then back to the kids. “Change of plan.”

Methos squinted out the cracked windshield as he buttoned himself up, taking in the green team sweatshirts and running shorts. “Let me guess. Track team. Out for an early morning constitutional. Fresh morning air is bad for you, Joe. Remember that.”

“Do I look like an aficionado? Get them in the car, willya? We don’t have much time before Mini-Methos and his Boy Band cut us off.”

“What do you have planned, Joe? Shoot the gap and try to make it down the road off the plateau? We’ll be exposed to crossfire for most of a mile.”

“Not down. Up. This road turns into an old wagon road. It continues up to those played out mines I told you about. It’s at least partly driveable. If the cavalry won’t ride over the hill to the rescue... ,” Joe paused to swing wide around a chuck hole.

“...Then we’ll ride over the hill to rescue the cavalry,” Methos finished for him.

*****

Methos was back in the shotgun seat, turned sideways to keep an eye on their pursuers and their cargo. The boys were wide-eyed as owls. They squeezed together, knees drawn up, trying not to put their feet on the guns. Between them, they demolished the two water bottles Joe had bought at the cafe. One ventured to reach over to touch one of the pistols Methos had stocked barrel down in the center console.

Joe lightly slapped his hand away. “Not yet, kid. What’s your name?”

“Bobby.”

“Any of you had any training with guns?” he asked the rest of the group sharply.

The response was almost uniformly negative. “I shot at a ground squirrel with a BB gun once,” the smallest boy confessed with a blush.

“Ew, what were you going to do, eat it?” another asked, derisive.

“He missed,” Bobby came to the boy’s defense.

Joe glanced sideways at Methos. “North of the border. If this were Montana, they’d probably already have their own arsenal.”

Methos shook his head, and said in a low voice, “You were younger than a couple of these tadpoles when you enlisted. If this were two hundred years ago, they’d have already counted coup. We work with what we’ve got.”

“Listen up, kids,” Joe raised his voice. “You don’t know us, but you’re going to have to take our word for it that those guys with guns back there don’t have your best interests at heart. When we say duck, duck. When we say run, run. All the way to Lethbridge, if you have to. Got it?”

“Yes sir!” Methos snickered at the squeaked chorus, adding sotto voce, “General, sir.”

Joe didn’t crack a smile. He paused to negotiate a particularly tight turn. The unmaintained road was rising steadily, and the Jeep rocked over potholes and rocks that had rolled from the steep slope on their right, but missed continuing on over the dropoff on their left. A stream meandered the canyon bottom three hundred feet below.

“I see them back there!” Bobby piped up, his voice cracking slightly. “They’re just starting up the hill!”

“Duck,” Joe ordered. “Keep your heads down, just in case they start shooting again.”

“How far?” Methos asked quietly.

“Not far,” Joe answered. “About a half a mile ahead, another few hundred yards to the top of the ridge. Then you’ll be out of range.”

“We’ll be out of range. The monastery can’t be more than a mile or two north as the crow flies, right?”

“Right.” Joe concentrated on his driving. “The kids are in shape, they’ll make it, easy.”

“Right.” Methos looked at Joe, then up at the steep rocky ridge rising above them to meet with the shoulder of Chief Mountain. He inhaled to point out the flaw in the plan.

Joe held up his hand, and glanced back at their charges. “Any of you see a tall guy, dark hair, good runner?” he asked.

“You mean Mr. MacLeod?” Bobby replied. “He’s the reason we were so freaked. He likes to run with the team during his visits, gives us tips on breathing and things. He’s cool. We were on the ridge doing intervals, and saw him catching up to us on the other side, the monastery trail, and we stopped.”

“Some of us stopped,” another chipped in. “You were dogging it.”

“I was just pacing myself for the hill climbs,” Bobby said defensively.

“Yeah, hill climbs suck,” the smallest boy said, to general agreement. “But Mr. Mac always makes us run them.”

“Tyrant,” Methos muttered, making Joe suppress a laugh.

“Hill climbs are good for the team,” Bobby said virtuously.

“Suck up,” someone else muttered darkly.

“But Mr. Mac went into a stretch of woods where we couldn’t see him,” Bobby hijacked the narrative again after delivering a general quelling glare. “And he didn’t come out.”

“Then we heard shots. Everywhere. Down at the monastery. Down in the woods. Hunting season doesn’t start for a week.” The noise level in the Jeep rose as everyone competed to add their personal version of the story.

“Pipe down!” Joe halted in a wide spot, overgrown with weeds. A tailings pile tumbled down the mountain before them. A rock slide blocked a mine entrance above them. A mule trail lead to more mines above, and a footpath continued on up the ridge, dodging trees and boulders. Joe killed the engine and turned around. “Anyone go down and see what happened to Mac?” he asked quietly.

There was a long silence. Methos searched their faces, keeping his own feelings tightly reined in, letting Joe lead.

“Okay. You did the smart thing, and the right thing, trying to get yourselves and all of your team back to a safe place. I understand.” Joe’s words were even, and unjudgmental, but no one in the car met his eye. “Now, my buddy Adam here is going to get you to a new safe place. Hopefully the way to the monastery will be clear by now. Whatever plan he comes up with, you follow it. When he asks you about the terrain, you give him everything you know. Clear?”

“Yes sir.” The chorus was considerably chastened.

“Now. Out. Up the ridge, wait for Adam at the top. Stay out of sight!”

“Aren’t you coming with us?” the youngest asked, doubtfully.

“I’ll see you later. You get going. Now!”

The team poured out of the Jeep, while Joe made his more stately exit, and leaned against the fender, looking up the ridge, and down the canyon. Their pursuers were still well back, snaking in and out of sight as the road folded around the ridge. “They’ll be in range in another minute or three. I should be able to pin them down, give you a few hours, enough time to bring reinforcements,” he said with easy optimism.

“The two of us can fend them off for a week,” Methos came around the car and stood eye to eye with Joe.

Joe didn’t bother to argue. He just reached out, and gently grasped Methos by the scruff of the neck, pulling him close. He only whispered two words. “Find Mac.”

Methos inhaled sharply. “Dammit, Joe.”

“I know. But you need speed, now. When you get back, I’ll be here.”

Still swearing, Methos helped Joe pile some rocks up into a row of ambush stations that gave him a greater field of fire, stocking each with pieces of their armament. He stocked the mine entrance last, using the Jeep as a shield. “And watch those ricochets! You keep ruining my good work.”

“Sorry, man,” Joe said with genuine regret. “Oh, and you’d better give me my cell phone back. If the Watchers unlock it, I might be able to make it work up this high. I might want to edit your vid before your hackers get to it. Make sure it shows my good side.”

“No, it just shows your face,” Methos reassured inanely, and handed it over.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you thought like a fourteen-year-old,” Joe laughed.

“Who are you going to call?”

Joe shrugged, then grinned, and out of his coat pocket pulled a crumpled bar napkin. “Maybe the goalie.”

“You dog,” Methos declared, then gently held Joe’s shoulders, pulling their heads close together. “You are the best survivor I know.”

“That’s a helluva compliment, coming from you,” Joe answered, slightly stunned.

“I only learn from the best.”

“Find Mac,” Joe repeated. “And kick his ass for me for not following your plan.”

“After we come back for you, Joe. You want to watch, don’t you?” And Methos was off, racing the breeze to the top of the ridge.

“You bet,” Joe said to himself. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

*****

Methos was half-way up the slope when the evil snap of the Dragunov sniper rifle raised his hackles. He ducked his head in reflex for the next three shots, but kept running. There was a short lull, and a break in the covering trees gave Methos a glimpse of the lead Humvee leaning precariously on the dirt road, front tire hopelessly ruined, windshield shot out.

There was a splat next to his foot, and following, the sound of a rifleshot, the peal of a Remington, not the flat crack of a Dragunov. They were shooting at him--he was visible, Joe was not. Joe’s instincts had been dead on target when he sent the runners ahead up the hill. They were well out of sight, now. Methos sprinted again, climbing erratically, using the boulders and trees as cover, but showing himself often enough to draw fire and notice away from Joe’s position. He even let loose a round from his handgun, the echoes confusing the issue.

To his right a dell of aspen filled a draw all the way to the top of the ridge, perfect cover. He dodged into it, then farther through, exposing himself in a dramatic dive for a boulder, acting as if he were working his way down the ridge to flank the attackers from above in a crossfire. Two figures broke away from the first Humvee to meet the threat.

Joe started a steady fusillade, bullets spaced only by how fast he could work the single shot bolt and aim, making them hide their heads. “I’ll buy the next round for the house, for that, Joe,” Methos promised recklessly, as he carefully backtracked from rock to bush to the deep cover of the aspen grove. Joe backed off his rate of fire slowly, to a more conservative and unnervingly random rhythm.

Every once in a while he would salt in some shots from the .45 or one of the lesser rifles. Methos hoped that left the young assault force in complete doubt as to both their positions, and their armed numbers. Then, grabbing the aspens for leverage and vaulting over downed logs, Methos crested the hill, leaving Joe behind.

*****

Joe squinted against mid-morning sun, wishing he’d bought more water and less coffee at the roadside cafe. After Methos had made it to the top of the ridge, he cut his rate of fire to conserve ammunition for the long range rifle. Carefully keeping his head below the lip of the roadcut, he pulled himself to his second station, hoisting the Dragunov on his back.

He set up in the second blind just in time. The two hunting Methos were breaking cover to make another foray up the ridge. “Stupid, boys. I have the angle,” he scolded, shouldering the gun. He took a long, deep breath, then another, steadier one. He lined up his sites, taking his time to check windage, altitude drop, and range. After one more breath, he squeezed off the shot. Dust puffed from a Levi-clad leg. Joe could just see blood stain the calf through the scope before he heard the cry of pain. The sound of the echoing shot rolled down the canyon, somehow louder than before.

Joe rolled on his back, eyes shut. Kids. They were just kids. Older than the team of runners they were trying to capture, maybe, but that didn’t stop him from feeling sick about raising the sniper rifle again.

He heard a shout and an order from below. “Shit, no time to stop watching.” He rolled over in time to see the boy he had just shot sprinting upward toward a boulder. “Shitfire,” he elaborated. “Immortal.”

Two more shots, and the young Immortal was down again.

For the moment.

*****

Methos put Bobby in the lead, and took up the rear himself, ordering the boys to stop where they had last observed MacLeod. He pushed them as hard as he dared, not caring if they thought him ruthless (he was) or careless (he wasn’t.) Injuries would slow them down, dropouts weren’t to be tolerated. So he didn’t push them too hard. Just hard enough.

Bobby finally slowed his downhill dash, and pulled up on a knob of the north side of the ridge. They were nearly to the valley floor, which was carpeted with meadows near the stream and tall stands of alpine fir and lodgepole pine.

“Mr. Mac stopped like he heard something, there, on the path,” Bobby stood and pointed until Methos took him by the arm and drew him down from the skyline. “Then he cut off into the forest, there. That’s where we lost him.”

Methos breathed in the smells of the forest, and frowned. He could still hear Joe’s shots from over the hill, distant cracks, with answering pops of smaller arms. He could almost scent MacLeod on the breeze. A tantalizing electric frisson caressed his hackles. Close. He could be down there in seconds.

It reeked of a trap.

“We go around. Stick to the ridge, above. Stay off the trails. If you lose me, follow the ridge contour all the way down, until you’re even with the monastery. Wait there for a half an hour. If they don’t find you by that time, they can’t leave, or won’t be able to help you anyway.” Methos thought for a moment. “In that case, keep on following the ridge until it hits the highway. Create a scene. Catch a ride in beat up old cars. Get arrested. Just say no to Hummers. Understand?”

They nodded, but they didn’t understand. Methos could see it in their dubious gazes and proto-heroic stances. Some of Joe’s foolishness must have rubbed off on them. “What about Mr. Mac?” Bobby finally asked.

“That’s not your problem. Your problem is...my problem. Damn.” Joe had made it his problem. “Follow me, and be quiet. No talking. None.”

Methos left the path, cutting across the side of the ridge, following game trails when they suited, and leaping logs and bounding off boulders when they petered out. He slowed as they came even with the copse of trees where MacLeod had disappeared. The boys trailed in, and Methos shook his head. At least three, if not four, hummed with subliminal threnodies of pre-Immortality, now that they kept silent and still enough for him to hear and feel the subtle presences. Someone had separated these lambs from the herd.

Methos tuned in to listen to the distant gunfire. The bolt-action Dragunov was being used sparingly, now. Joe was relying on the secondary guns for mass firepower. That meant the enemy was moving. He looked up at the top of the ridge. “We can’t chance being cut off. Show me your finishing kick.” He turned, and nearly plowed into a barefoot man with sun-bronzed skin in a loose gray-green gi standing on the deertrack. Methos’ sword was out in an instant, causing everyone but his unknown opponent to levitate back six feet.

“Calm, please. I am here to collect the children,” the man stated. “I am Brother Juan.” He held out his hand in greeting, waiting for a response.

Methos did not lower his sword. “Bobby? Who told you to take the team out on a run?”

“Coach Kowalski said it would be good for us to have an unscheduled run,” Bobby said. “Hi, Brother Juan! Is everyone all right?”

“They are well, and safe within the walls. Your friends should join them.” Brother Juan’s eyes flickered to Methos. “I don’t know you, but Brother Duncan has described you as a careful man. We have pickets from here to the monastery, looking for the children. The way is safe, for now.”

“We keep telling you, we’re not children,” Bobby complained under his breath. A few of the other boys had turned red at the description.

Methos again glanced at the ridge, and the copse below, and the monk. Lowering his sword, he handed his charges off to Brother Juan. “They are all yours. Don’t delay. Those hunters are after very special game. MacLeod is missing, and they have my friend Joe trapped over the ridge.”

“So we hear,” Brother Juan said dryly. “We will send out a party to help, as soon as these _young men_ are in safety.” Brother Juan touched the shoulder of the smallest team member, and pointed out the next picket, starting him off on the path.

“Bobby, you take up the rear,” Methos ordered peremptorily. “I’ll see to Mr. Mac.” Taking advantage of the distraction created by the not-so-monkishly-stealthy running team, Methos faded into the understory of the forest, now solely intent on finding MacLeod.

*****

At this rate, Joe was going to run out of ammunition by noon. He had three separate Immortals from two vehicles tag-teaming their way up the slope toward the ridgetop. The farther they progressed, the harder it was for Joe to keep the others pinned down. The Immortals were clearly working their way above Joe, so they could traverse the ridge out of his sight, and shoot down on him unopposed. Worse, they might see Methos and his charges from the heights, and find a way to cut them off.

A bullet spanged off the edge of his shelter. He was being bracketed. Joe rolled left toward the next sniper nest. It was closer to the slope, which meant better cover from above, but a more difficult shooting angle. He never thought he’d miss foxholes, but right now a nice deep hole was sounding very homey. “Don’t be dwelling on impossibilities,” Joe muttered to himself, remembering something an old Korea vet had once told him. “The improbabilities keep you busy enough. Pay attention, or your next foxhole will be six feet deep.”

Joe’s hardware clinked as he crawled, ammo belts dragging, the Dragunov safely cradled in his elbows, scope protected. With the bandolier and other gear pulling him back, his legs were getting to be a real annoyance. They were hot, heavy and picking up dirt in the sockets. He seriously considered shedding them, but the thought of being found by Methos in his skivvies raised all kinds of havoc with his self-esteem.

Joe popped up to loose a couple of rounds with the .45 for the booming effect. He was shooting straight across the hill at the climbers, now, and would soon be shooting uphill. His last perch was nestled in close to the hillside, with the most cover, but the poorest shooting angle. It was also the farthest nest from the car, where he would need speed. They would be coming fast, then.

During a lull in the shooting, he changed his mind about the prostheses. He wasn’t going to win any footraces as it was. Scooting to the car, he skinned out of his gear and dug into his overnight bag for a pair of cutoffs. He sighed in relief as the mountain air cooled his stumps. To keep his opponents honest, he peppered the lead Humvee with a few shots from the driver’s side of the Jeep. “Score one for the Green Party,” he told himself when the radiator blew.

Riding a wave of black humor, he arranged the prostheses so they stuck out from the tumbled boulders at the mouth of the mine. From above, it would look like a cave-in. It even creeped him out. It might draw in an incautious risk-taker for an easy shot.

Hitting the dirt again, Joe made the last station in time to plug an Immortal with a red shirt just before he gained the top of the ridge. He fell with style, cartwheeling down the hill, nearly to the road. Joe regarded the shot with satisfaction, just before he leaned out of the shelter to boot up what was left of breakfast. By this time, it wasn’t very much.

*****

Methos catfooted down the hill, casting for physical tracks and Immortal signatures, but even the breeze had laid down and gone quiet. Methos realized he was missing the steady pepper of Joe’s shots. He was changing position, he told himself. That was all.

Even the birds were muted, their song stilled. Only a fly buzzed. Another. Suddenly Methos swore, and stood, drawing his blade and pelting through the forest like a mad Pict. There, in a glade in the center of the stand of trees lay MacLeod, carefully positioned, three bullet holes in his chest and a cheesy student’s instructional foil through his heart. Not stopping, not even slowing, Methos ripped out the foil as he passed, diving and rolling into cover at the other side of the glade.

All he could hear was the drone of flies, and his own harsh breathing. When a phone went off in his pocket with a crashing death metal ringtone, he accidentally lopped off a perfectly innocent sapling bringing his sword to an instinctive block. Pulling out the offending cell, he nearly snapped it in half opening the clamshell. “What?” he snapped.

The mechanically generated speaker voice cackled, “I know who you are. And I saw what you did last summer.”

“Caught up on my Netflix queue? I saw that movie, too.” Methos snarled, as he considered resurrecting some creative punishments he learned when shipwrecked on Madagascar. His hapless hacker corps had obviously run out of caffeine and fallen asleep on the job. “Do you really know who I am?”

“You created the Watcher database. I want it. Give it to me, or I’ll take out everybody you know, one by one. Starting with that old Watcher, and finishing with your lover. You’ve seen what we can do.”

“Diversifying already? You’ve only just cornered the market on babes in the woods.” Methos searched the skyline and the approaches, his ears straining for the flat, vicious crack of the Dragunov.

“Dissect and conquer,” the mechanical voice crowed, and then the connection went dead.

*****

Joe pulled a duffle with the last of his ammunition and three guns into his last shelter, snugged right up against the slope. He could still see the assault team on the approaches, if he rolled out of his niche. Of course, if he wasn’t very careful, they could also see him. On the other hand, his hapless prostheses were doing their job and drawing fire from the ridge. A few bullets even pocked through the roof of the Jeep, ruining the upholstery.

Joe was beginning to have second thoughts about his decoy, as another stitch of gunfire raised dust at the entrance of the mine. He’d have to take out another mortgage to pay for a new pair, if this one got shot to hell. Joe rubbed another handful of tailings dirt on his cutoffs, muting their faded color even further. He stripped off his darker jacket and was about to throw it toward the mine as another decoy when a pocket buzzed. Incredulous, he drew out his iPhone and tapped it awake. “You rang?” he said in his deepest voice.

“Joe. It’s Mike.”

Joe made a face at the phone. “I know it’s Mike. Only the head of internal security could lift a blacklist. Hell, you’re the one who slapped it on. Mike Barrett, former bartender. Head snitch.” As he spoke, Joe smiled to himself. The scrollbar at the bottom indicated that Methos’ video was uploading as he dragged out his happy greetings.

“Joe, we have a problem.”

“ _You_ have a problem?” Joe held up the iPhone and kicked up the sound, just as a Mac 10 spattered the rocks around the mine. They were bringing out their short range weapons. “Ow, dammit, the slackers just plugged my good Italian shoes. I liked those shoes. This is turning into one damn spendy road trip.”

“Joe, what the hell is going on? I’ve got a Watcher in Seacouver swearing you interfered with a challenge, panic phone calls from Chief Mountain that the whole school has been kidnapped by mad monks, and separate reports from Watcher boarding schools in Botswana and Argentina saying they’ve lost students. And now you’re shooting somebody else?”

“To be fair, somebody else is shooting back.” Joe amused himself by keying up the alley shootout vid after it uploaded while needling Mike. “You were faster on the uptake when you were my bar manager, Mike. You remember, back before you turned me over to Jack Shapiro? What’s the matter, promotion make you stale?”

“That’s not the way it happened then,” Mike Barrett said tensely. “And it’s not the way it is now. But I have to warn you, I’m sending a team after you. I need you to stand down and explain all this, Joe.”

“The more, the merrier.” Joe froze the screen, looking closer. Magnifying. “Here’s what’s happening, Mike. Keep up,” he suggested helpfully, as he emailed the vid and screenshot to his ex-bartender. “A baby Immortal is somehow talked into ambushing MacLeod. Predictably, it doesn’t go well. While Mac is frozen with the Quickening, a baby Watcher tries to take his head. See the shot I just emailed you? You can see the blacked out tattoo on his left wrist. The punk is probably a washout that weaseled out of your control. Shit security, in my humble opinion. Pardon my French. Excuse me a second.”

Joe grabbed the .45 and sent six shots toward a head bobbing along the ridge. He was flanked. After reloading, he set the phone to record and transmit. “Sorry about that, Mikey. It’s getting a little hot over here.” Joe slowly panned the iPhone cam over the dirt road dead end, the mine, then up the ridge and down the valley, where a kid had gotten the bright idea to push the first disabled Humvee up the road as cover for the second Humvee.

Joe propped up the phone at the edge of the blind, saying, “Observe and record. Let me bring you up to speed.” Picking up the Dragunov, Joe got back to work.

*****

Methos snapped the phone in half, and dropped it in his pocket. His hired geeks could deconstruct it later. Sometimes he wished for a little taste of the old days, when he could ship underperforming employees to the Circus Maximus. It sharpened the wits of the rest.

A sharp gasp and a moan carried from the center of the glade, and a signature as familiar as his own pulse beat melted Methos’ dark crystalline memories. “MacLeod! Rise and shine! There’s windmills to be tilted and fair maids to be jilted.”

“I seem to have mislaid my shining armor.” MacLeod picked at the bloody remains of his shirt, grimacing at the tacky mess. “Joe’s going to cut off our clothing allowance,” he said gloomily.

Methos darted out into the glade. “I’ll trade him even up for his next set of stitches,” he offered, hauling MacLeod up by the scruff of his neck and turning them toward the trail.

“That kid shot me!” MacLeod added, offended, as he gathered his thoughts and looked at the dull practice foil Methos shoved into his hands with distaste. “He stole my sword!”

“Which kid?” Methos asked. “One of the Seacouver gang? Or the Humvee Horde? I just got rid of six bystanders, myself. Joe picked them up hitchhiking and decided to adopt them. We really have to get him a proper wife. She wouldn’t stand for that sort of behavior.”

“I can track the youngster,” MacLeod said, stripping off the ruined shirt and studying some footprints at the edge of the clearing. “I’ll leave meddling with Joe’s love life to you.” MacLeod sliced the air with the battered foil, prowling for sign of his attackers.

“We have another problem, first,” Methos said quietly, touching his shoulder. He watched the ridge, listening. “I haven’t heard from Joe since before I found you.”

“Joe? He’s not at the monastery? I left you both a voicemail on his phone. Yours was blocked.”

“I may have to crucify my geeks after all,” Methos muttered. “No, MacLeod, I drove us into a trap,” he said, finally meeting his eyes. “I left Joe up there, playing Xenophon holding off the Persian horde. He’s watching our back.”

MacLeod was silent for the space of three heartbeats. Then, he placed his hand on Methos’ shoulder, curling his hand in a way that so reminded Methos of Joe that the hair rose on the back of his neck. “We’d better go get him, then,” he said softly.

Gathering up their swords, they started running.

*****  
The enemy had the high ground, now. Joe swore as a round pinged off a rock no more than eight inches from his hand. “Sorry, Mikey, didn’t mean to sully your delicate, pink, shell-like ears.” Joe carefully repositioned the iPhone video pickup. “Can you see okay? I’ve got to find cover from above, so we’re going to move in a second.”

“Get out of there, Joe,” Mike ordered.

“No can do. The bandits have me surrounded. We’ll just have to see who runs out of bullets first. Now, do you want the cheap seats here, or do you want the helmet cam version?”

“Up close and personal,” Mike said, sounding unhappy.

“Okay, we’re headed to the Jeep for Dawson’s Last Stand. Ring-side view.”

“Joe, one suggestion?” Mike asked, a little desperately. “We’ve been recording this. There might be something we can do to help when you get to the Jeep.”

“From Headquarters? That would be a first.” Joe gathered what was left of his ammo and shouldered his bandolier. He tucked the .45 behind his back and slung the Dragunov. He’d need to move fast, this time. “Tell me if we get there,” he said, sticking the phone in his shirt pocket. He belly sprinted to the cover of the Jeep, scrabbling over the tailings piles like a crab.

Hauling himself under the Jeep fender, and scraping under the muffler, Joe paused to get his breath while bullets cratered the dirt around him. There was a divot just behind the left front wheel that allowed him to turn over and spy on the slope above, with the wheel as cover. “Okay, Mikey, we’re here. What do you think of the new digs?” Joe sent out a .45 round to keep the attackers honest. They had been cheating while he relocated.

“I think they’d better not shoot out the tires,” Mike warned.

“Leave it to you to find the drawbacks,” Joe admitted. “Was that your administrative contribution?”

Mike gave a put-upon sigh. “No. What I’m thinking of, is a little iTunes action. Can you start the Jeep?”

“If I want muffler burns when it warms up,” Joe pointed out.

“It will double your effective firepower,” Mike promised.

Intrigued despite himself, Joe listened. If it stretched his survival from five minutes to ten, he owed it to Methos and Mac to give it a test drive. While he was listening, Joe rolled out from under the passenger side of the Jeep, away from the slope, and opened the front door. Hauling himself in, he scouted for more ammunition and scored one more box for the Dragunov, and a half a box of .45s to reload the bandolier.

“You look like Pancho Villa’s great uncle,” Mike accused when Joe put him on the dashboard.

“Be nice, or I won’t plug you into the charger.” Joe turned him around to face upslope. “Make yourself useful and keep an eye out.” Trying the ignition, the Jeep caught on the first try, then coughed and died. “Carburetor took a hit. Poor girl,” he sighed.

“Your Jeep’s a girl?”

“Carried me where I needed to go, even when I was down and out,” Joe lamented. “You got a problem with that?”

Mike elected to default on that question. “Looks like they’re gathering above the mine. At about a hundred yards, where that cliff sticks out. See them?”

There was a sound of stone impacting stone. Hard. Joe glanced out, careful not to make an easy target. “What are they doing, throwing rocks? Maybe I do have more ammunition than they do.”

“Get out of the drivers seat, Joe!” Mike suddenly yelled. “They’re starting an avalanche!”

*****

“Methos, careful,” MacLeod cautioned as they summited. The sound of gunfire had redoubled for most of their climb, but in the last hundred yards it had stopped completely. The evil bark of the Dragunov had gone silent. “They might be holding the ridge.”

“They probably have a lookout. So look out,” Methos said impatiently. “I don’t want the ridge. I want to see if Joe’s still with us.” He didn’t slow as they topped the hill until he could find a perch where he could see the mine. He caught his breath when he saw the new avalanche scar and the crumpled Jeep. A skirmish line was drawn in close above the mine entrance, clearly waiting for a signal. “If you see the miscreant who shot you, tell me. I have issues,” he said coldly.

“No time like the present,” MacLeod caught his sleeve and pointed behind them. “That one.”

Two teens in familiar green uniforms carrying Mac Tens emerged from cover in a stand of aspens, followed by another carrying just a cell phone and a very familiar katana with a dragon hilt.

“Surprise!” said Bobby, as he clicked the phone shut. “Did you miss me?”

“You really shouldn’t have come back. I won’t stop at mere dissection,” Methos purred. “Let me enroll you in Vivisection 101.” Methos reached back under his collar and before they could react, drew his own sword. “Here, MacLeod, take this. I’m going to need something with a finer point.”

MacLeod took the sword and twirled it, the pommel settling easily into his hard hand. “Nice balance. I like the way you’ve polished the pinions,” MacLeod praised, flashing it in the sun, delaying as Methos edged a subtle step closer to the teen on the left.

“Hey, guns, here,” Bobby smirked.

“I can’t believe you let Captain Underpants get the drop on you, MacLeod,” Methos sniffed. “Twice.”

“Sorry. The guns were not on the syllabus,” MacLeod said, chagrined. “And I was tying my shoe.”

“Drop it. Or I drop you both.” Bobby was losing his sense of humor.

The faster Bobby lost his sense of humor, the more Methos regained his, or a darker illusion thereof. “Oh, I don’t think so, Bubby.”

“Bobby! In fact, it’s ‘Robert, sir’, to you! I’ll shoot you both and feed MacLeod to my Immortal wolves down below in a heartbeat. I’ll even carry you down to watch.”

“You’re too small and lazy to drag us all over the ridge, stripling. And you don’t have the time. The monks will find out you’re playing hooky again, and add three and three, and come in force. They aren’t stupid, just dangerously honest, and they expect honesty from others. I’m not. And I don’t.”

MacLeod nodded. “He’s not. A suspicious bugger, he is,” he added amiably, adding in a confidential whisper, “And he’s an accomplished liar.”

“Thank you, MacLeod. The talent is so often unappreciated.” Methos held up his right hand, staring at it hard. “Case in point. See that, MacLeod?”

MacLeod drew back the sword, craning for a good look. “Oh, yes. Perfect example.”

“Hey, what?” Bobbie started, then stepped back away from the Immortals. “Don’t look!” he commanded his companions, who were already squinting their eyes to see something that wasn’t there.

“Oh, come now, don’t you want your henchboys to see the secret?” Methos teased. “What it really means to be a blooded Immortal?”

“Shoot them!” Bobby yelled, backing up to the very edge of the ridge.

Both raised their guns obediently, but the one on the right stumbled, losing his grip on the stock, sliding bonelessly to the ground with a hole in his chest. A second later, the crisp echo of the Dragunov snapped around the canyon walls.

“Joe’s still with us, MacLeod!” Methos moved swiftly to take full advantage of Joe’s gift of surprise. He palmed the snub nose automatic from his coat and put two rounds in the chest of the unfortunate henchboy number two. The gun moved to cover Bobby before the second corpse hit the ground. Then he held the automatic out to MacLeod, who took it with an expression of unhappy necessity. “Sword, please.”

MacLeod formally returned the heavy blade.

Bobby darted sideways, eyeing an abandoned Mac Ten, but MacLeod was there before him, holding the gun aimed at the earth, and the flimsy practice sword like the finest Toledo steel. “Ah, ah, no cheating. It’s past time you learned the Game has rules.”

“There is no Game!” Bobby said desperately, holding the katana in an ugly two-handed grip, then reversing it, and desperately offering it back. “There’s just the world! All you have to do is join us, it’s yours for the taking! We’ve hacked banks! We’ve drained companies! With your experience, we could take whole countries!”

Methos raised his sword. “Been there.” He drew it back. “Done that.” The arc was clean and swift. “Got the T-shirt.”

MacLeod’s katana dropped unharmed to the wind-scoured earth. He gathered it up without a backwards glance, giving Methos a moment of privacy.

Methos did watch, as Bobby’s headless body toppled over the side, tumbling gracelessly down into the the center of the battered and bloodstained assault squad, creating considerable chaos. “No regrets, MacLeod?” he asked hollowly.

MacLeod crouched next to the other two bodies. “Another time, I might have considered the punishment a little extreme,” he said quietly. “But they were preying on their own, as well as us.” He glanced down the slope, then stiffened as he focussed on the bullet-riddled Jeep and the barest glimpse of Joe’s prostheses trailing out of the blocked mine. “How did he make that shot from there?” he asked himself.

Methos watched the mine, his staring eyes barely sparking with the consumption of Bobby’s tiny unformed Quickening. “It’s not worth losing a weapon to make sure these two stay dead. It will be hours, anyway. New Immortals always take the longest to revive.” Absently, he wiped his sword on some dry fireweed. “We’ll roll them down the avalanche path, too,” he decided. “It will make the others think twice about their new career. And it might give Joe a few extra minutes before they regroup.”

MacLeod stifled his objections to the desecration of corpses after reading Methos’ face carefully. “It’s not as if the damage will be permanent.” he agreed reluctantly. The thin veneer of stylized rules that made up the Game didn’t hide the fact that brute violence was part and parcel of their lives. “And then?”

“And then, MacLeod, we descend on them like the End of Days.”

*****

It was a rout. The avalanche of bodies followed by two sword waving berzerkers leaping down slope so unnerved the remains of the gang that their skirmish line broke like wet tissue paper. The two Immortals that had courageously spearheaded the attack on Joe came apart utterly when they felt Methos’ unleashed Immortal signature. They fled for the illusory safety of the working Humvee, their mortal and pre-Immortal cohorts following quickly behind. They tossed an occasional wild shot, but MacLeod and Methos ignored them, pelting down the hill and sliding in a cloud of dust down next to the pile of rocks marking the entrance of the mine.

The landslide had crushed the side of the Jeep and broken out most of it’s windows, half filling it with rocks and dirt. The back windshield had popped up and the tailgate dropped, but the bed only contained some empty boxes of shells. For a moment, they stood staring at the crushed plastic leg protruding from under a pile of debris. “Joe?” Methos asked in a very quiet voice.

“Yeah, what do you want?” a voice floated up from the far side of the Jeep. “Give me a hand, here, willya?”

Methos dashed around the Jeep, getting there a split-second ahead of MacLeod. Together, they gently drew him out from under the vehicle and leaned him up against the door. He was still clutching the Ka-Bar in one hand and a round of ammunition in the other. “Are you all right?” MacLeod asked, undraping the empty bandolier and coaxing Joe into putting aside the Ka-Bar. Silent beside him, Methos carefully looked over scrapes and tested joints.

“Hell, yeah, I’m fine. They never touched me.” Joe slapped Methos’ hand away from exploring his shoulder. His voice was strong, but he kept glancing away at the slope. He still had a rifle bullet clenched in one fist.

Methos looked at his own hand, where it had touched Joe’s shoulder. It was muddy with dirt and blood.

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that, I busted a couple of the old stitches,” Joe apologized offhandedly.

“We’re running out of shirts, Joe,” MacLeod turned to keep an on the retreating gang, missing Methos’ stillness.

“I should have opened an Immortal laundry, not a bar. Rips repaired, stains removed. It’d pay good money,” Joe rambled on.

“Let’s get you up and off the ground,” MacLeod offered.

“Wait a sec, let me get the guns.” Joe made a move to dive back under the Jeep.

Nose flaring, Methos grabbed him by the filthy shirt and hauled Joe by brute force up to dangle at eye level, pinning him against his own Jeep. “Never. Ever. Pull a stunt like that again.”

“Hey, man, what’s the matter with you?” Joe objected, startled, then affronted. He gave Methos a warning cuff up the side of his head. “Let me go!” Joe’s fist tightened and drew back for a serious blow.

Then MacLeod was there, easing Joe’s arm over his shoulder. Disengaging Methos’ fingers, he smoothly opened the passenger door and slid Joe into the bucket seat. “Better?” MacLeod was talking to Methos, not Joe. Joe was well south of ‘better.’

Methos huffed in disgust and turned and slid down the side of the car to hunker next to Joe. “Better. Next time, I get to spend a nice quiet morning shot dead while everyone else loses their minds.”

“You were dead, Mac?” Joe asked, ratcheting up to a new layer of perturbation. “Who got the drop on you?”

Methos grinned maliciously. “You tell him or I will.”

“Fine. See if I rescue _you_ next time.” MacLeod turned and announced with dignity, “The head of the debate society, the president of the junior class, and the manager of the cross-country team.”

“Captain Underpants and his merry men,” Methos corrected. “Lead by our very own Bobby. Ex-Bobby.”

“Damn. No wonder you’re mad,” Joe offered, letting out a long breath. “Sorry about that. I didn’t make a very good General, hey?”

Methos surveyed the mayhem surrounding them. “Compared to who? Custer? You did good, Joe.”

“Speaking of the cavalry,” Joe held his hand over his eyes, squinting at the ridge again. “I guess late is better than never.” A line of monks had materialized on the ridge, slowly flowing down over rock and shale, gently gathering the bodies that were left. They floated through like smoke, silent in their task. Joe shuddered, once, but no one broke the eery silence until they were gone. All but one.

“We failed them once, Brother Duncan. We must see if we can do better for them in their second incarnation.” Brother Juan addressed MacLeod, but he kept his eyes focussed on Methos and Joe. “Your companion is quite adept at holding death at bay.” He moved on to follow his brethren.

Methos watched him well out of earshot before poking Joe. “Teacher’s pet.”

“Me? He was talking about you. Didn’t you rescue MacLeod and get away from the ringleader? And what about the rest of the kids you saved?”

“And how about the ones that got away?” Methos grumbled. “Shoddy work, that.”

“Speaking of which,” MacLeod shaded his eyes and looked down canyon at a fading cloud of dust. “What are we going to do about the escaping delinquents? Bobby’s gone, but his contacts are still out there.”

“Mike will take care of it,” Joe waved vaguely, oddly unconcerned.

“Who the hell is Mike?” Methos snapped, still not quite mollified.

“Who the hell is Bobby?” snapped a voice in return from inside the Jeep. “I need more information than that!”

“Almost forgot. That’s Mike. You remember Mike? I think he liked you best, Adam. He always slipped you free beers and forgot to mark them down.” Joe reached back into the Jeep and pulled out the battered iPhone, staring it down. “Haven’t you been listening, Mike? Bobby and his band hacked your files. They probably erased their own. You have to start from scratch. Six teenagers joyriding in a Humvee. Shouldn’t be too hard to find. You might try the nearest MacDonalds, Mikey. Sic ‘em.” Joe tapped the phone off with an air of finality.

“You brought in Mike?” Methos asked, incredulous. “The head of the hit squad trying to run you down?”

“He brought himself in. I needed to upload your vid, he needed to vent. Turns out he did me a solid, anyway.”

“How?” Methos asked, suspicious.

Instead of answering, Joe turned the cell phone back on, and called up iTunes. “Check this shit,” he said admiringly, making sure it was still tied into the car speakers. Suddenly, the sounds of gunfire erupted from every woofer and tweeter, causing both Immortals to leap back, and Joe to hunch against the noise. He turned it off.

“We used it intermittently, or they would figure out it’s a tape loop. But it kept them off my back for a while. That’s why I crawled under the Jeep-the noise was frying me. Some kind of hero, right? But I didn’t have much choice. Here, this is yours,” Joe opened his fist and handed the shell he still held back to Methos.

“What’s this?”

“I was down to my last bullet.”

*****

Methos settled in next to MacLeod at their favorite shadowy corner table in Joe’s Bar, sliding over an extra beer. The white ale was cold, the crowd was warm, and the music hot, and for some long, companionable minutes they just sat back and enjoyed watching their Watcher work the guitar. Joe stirred his Saturday night crowd with sly lyrics, hot licks, and a knowing laugh that just stopped short of lecherous. Not far short.

“Who was that woman Joe was talking to at the bar earlier?” MacLeod asked idly during a break.

“Someone he met at a hockey game,” Methos answered guilelessly. “You remember when I got him season tickets, in return for kidnapping him the other week?”

“I thought it was to pacify him when he found out you reprogrammed his ringtone to that old Jimmy Soul tune. _...never make a pretty woman your wife..._ . I thought he was going to cut off your tab. Really, I’m not sure who gets insulted more in that song, stylish women or foolish men.

“Which is why it’s a classic,” Methos declaimed. “And speaking of stylish, that silk shirt is quite pretty on you. It may drive me to do something foolish. That is, if Joe doesn’t object.”

The man in question eased around MacLeod and sat down. “Just as long as you don’t do it in public, and there are none of my kitchen supplies involved,” he said with a grin. “And stay away from the olives.”

“You know me so well, Joe,” Methos acknowledged. He squinted through the bar murk. “Is that a new shirt, too? Very spiffy.”

Joe colored. “Mac restocked this time. It’s tailored.” He tugged at the collar. “Listen, I can’t hang long. I just wanted to tell you that Mike’s crew matched a report of a floater in the Sound to that kid I shot in the alley. Tattoos matched. He was a washout from the Salt Lake Watcher Academy. A real sociopath, from his file.” Joe didn’t sound happy about it. “They’ve been trying to track him down for a long time. He stole a ton of files from the database there.”

“Mike’s tracking down the rest, I take it,” Methos said neutrally, suppressing his own suspicions. It had taken Joe weeks to settle out of combat mode already. He didn’t need reminders. Not when Methos knew for a fact he was still carrying around that Ka-Bar knife.

“Mike’s committed to chasing them all down, except for the known Immortals. We’re only Watching them,” Joe confirmed, letting that one hang for a moment. “Two of them were seen being lead into the Chief Mountain monastery. They haven’t been seen since.”

“Don’t ever piss off monks, Joe,” MacLeod recommended. “They have a twisted sense of humor.”

“Unlike the present company,” Joe needled Methos, compounding the crime by stealing a pull off his beer.

Methos nabbed the stein back without spilling a drop. “Without the gang’s support system, the yearling Immortals will fracture and separate. It’s the nature of the beast,” Methos predicted.

“They should have proper teachers,” MacLeod frowned.

“Oh, no you don’t. Look what happened the last time Joe adopted.”

“Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson,” Joe held up his hands, squelching the subject. “In fact, I’ve seriously considered disowning you two. If I didn’t need the tax deduction... .” Joe ducked a thrown napkin.

“You’ll need that writeoff, now that the remastered DVD version of _Woad Warrior, the Basement Tapes_ hit iTunes,” Methos pointed out, practical to a fault. “The fans will be beating down your doors.”

“Hell, that reminds me, there’s an agent from Dead Dog Records that keeps hounding me. That’s your fault! You started this, you find a way to get rid of him.”

“Don’t worry, Joe. I know where to hide the body,” Methos reassured. “Can I borrow your chainsaw?”

“On second thought, I’d better eighty-six him myself,” Joe gave him a sharp look. “How do you put up with him, MacLeod?”

“Does the phrase _Acme Pretzel Cage_ ring a bell?”

Joe got out of his chair in a hurry. “On that note, I’m off. You two be good.”

“He doesn’t know how to be good,” MacLeod intoned darkly. “I’ve yet to plumb the depths of his evil ways.”

“Well, tell me how your plumbing works out for you some other night. Or better yet, don’t.”

“And you go forth and be bad, Daddy-o. Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do,” Methos said, waving happily to the wide-shouldered woman at the bar. “That gives you lots of room to maneuver, from my personal point of view.”

“Yeah, like the Titanic in the Atlantic,” Joe predicted, but he forged off through the bar anyway, the crowd parting before him like a bow wave. He was grinning like a thief.

 

 _finis_


End file.
